


Sleeves Stained Red

by Novindalf



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: AU- Game of Thrones, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-26
Updated: 2013-03-30
Packaged: 2017-12-06 13:50:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 15
Words: 8,559
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/736395
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Novindalf/pseuds/Novindalf
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>AU inspired by ohmytheon’s The Winter’s Song/In the Lion's Den, where Cat is held captive after the RW and Tyrion flees King’s Landing without ascending the Tower of the Hand. Spoilers for ASOS, originally posted on Tumblr.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

She wakes in a room filled with light, to the sound of gulls and the sharp tang of sea-salt on the air. The room is furnished in pleasant shades of sunny yellow and sky blue, but all she can see is the crimson blanket that pins her to the bed and _blood blood blood_.

She tears it off her and tears it up, clawing at the woven lambswool and sobbing as she sees Robb on the ground, blood seeping from the jagged gash in his neck, sees blood on her hands as she lunges for Walder Frey, and blood before her eyes as she’s knocked to the ground by one of the Frey bastards. She must have cried out because her door to the chamber is flung open and Lannister guardsmen pile in, their cloaks flapping – _more blood_ – and though she screams and shies away from them and struggles as they take hold of her, there are too many of them, but she fights against them anyway.

Through the blood rushing in her ears she hears someone call for dreamwine, and she struggles even more. _I don’t want to sleep_ , she screams silently, _I must go to Robb, I have to see my son_ -

And then she’s crumpling to the floor as her tears defeat her and someone pours something down her throat and blood is all she can see as she’s forced into sleep.


	2. Chapter 2

When she next wakes the crimson is gone and there’s a maid sitting at the side of the room to watch over her. The girl eyes Catelyn warily as she rubs sleep from her eyes, her head and heart pounding. Her limbs feel heavily, like she’s been given another maester’s concoction to sedate her, and her throat is dry and hoarse from crying as she asks for some water.

The maid returns so fast with bread and water that she must have run to the kitchens and back to have fetched it in so short a time, but Catelyn barely notices. She hauls herself from the bed with its soft ivory covers and sips at the water and nibbles at the bread. The maid busies herself with helping her into a fresh gown, but Cat stares out the window to the sea as if she would love nothing more than to fling herself out her tower and down into the crashing waves.

But that will do nothing to bring Robb back, and even less to find Sansa and Arya.

“I wish to speak to Lord Tywin,” she says suddenly, startling the maid. The girl looks shocked that Lady Stark has figured out that she is at Casterly Rock, let alone that Lord Lannister brought her here, but she recovers swiftly enough to make her reply.

“He will speak with you this evening, my lady.”

Cat shakes her head. She might be a prisoner, but Catelyn is still Lady Stark of Winterfell, the eldest child of Lord Hoster Tully of Riverrun, and the mother of the King in the North, and she still commands respect. The late King in the North, she corrects herself, and though she feels like ice inside, her voice lashes out like fire.

“He will speak with me now,” she snaps, and the girl cowers out of her way as she storms across the room and throws back the door.


	3. Chapter 3

Her resolve wavers as she approaches Lord Tywin’s solar but her stride doesn’t, and despite the protest of her guard – still fervently trying to convince her otherwise – she bursts right into the room unannounced.

There’s a gaggle of Lannister men around the long table – _blood-red cloaks, the lot of them_ – in the middle of the room who jump up at the sudden intrusion, but she looks straight past them to the man at the head of it.

“A word, Lord Tywin,” she demands calmly, staring right at him as if daring him to back down.

To her surprise, the Lord of Casterly Rock, Warden of the West, and Hand of the King merely raises an eyebrow and dismisses his men with a wave of his hand. He waits until the room is empty but for him and her – even the guards traipse out at his order – and then slowly rises from his chair, the expression on his face looking more amused than annoyed as she had anticipated.

“Lady Stark,” he says slowly, as if savouring the words. (She’d almost call it purring, if it weren’t Tywin Lannister standing before her.) “I see you are well-rested-”

“Why am I here?” She gets straight to the point. She doubts anyone has ever cut him off like that before, but she wants to know – she needs to know – why she’s here, why he’s bothered to bring her here, why she was spared from the Frey’s massacre, where her son’s body lies, and all the other questions that swirl around her head more violently than the waves that crashed below her tower room here.

“I would have thought that was obvious,” retorts Tywin, coming to stand in front of her. “You’re a traitor, a prisoner, and awaiting the King’s justice.”

Catelyn highly doubts the ten year-old king was even made aware of her capture, let alone is considering her punishment, but she plays along. “Why am I not in King’s Landing then? Gods, why was I not killed at the Twins, when your catspaw _Walder Frey_ -” She spat the name furiously at him. “-defied the laws of guest-right and _killed my son_.”

“Because unlike your son, I can recognise the value of women.”

Tywin’s reply is cool as ice, but it burns through Cat like wildfire. She moves fast, but this time he’s faster, and he grabs her arm before her fist flies at his face. His grip is strong, his strength bruising, but she will not let him push her away like a weak little girl. She is a daughter of Riverrun, the lady of Winterfell, and the mother of the North, and she is _not weak_.

For several long moments they remain thus, until finally he lets go of her and she turns her back on him, closing her eyes as she tries to control her raging fury. When she finally turns back to face Lord Tywin, he has pulled out a chair and lounges in it – as much as a man sitting ramrod-straight in a hard wooden chair can lounge – eyeing her carefully. No, not carefully, she thinks, but with _admiration_?

He gestures for her to take a seat, and though she narrows her eyes at him as she does so, she still accepts the offer.

“Why am I here?” she asks again. “And I want an answer this time, not riddles and insults.”

Tywin Lannister is silent for a few second, looking at her closely as if weighing her up. “You want peace in the realm, do you not?” he asks slowly.

She scoffs at the question, and gives the answer she knows he is expecting. “Of course I do, Lord Lannister. _Peace_ is the reason my son went to war in the first place. Or have you forgotten how you daughter and grandson seized my husband, promised him clemency, and then proceeded to take his _head_.” Catelyn shakes with fury as she condemns him, the Lannisters, the whole damn lot of them, and her gaze is fierce as it bores into him.

He inclines his head slightly, almost conceding to her words. “But it was your capture of my son that sparked my daughter’s revenge, was it not?” he challenges.

“I suspected him of trying to kill my son!” Cat exclaims furiously, throwing back her chair as she flies up to stand.

“You merely offer proof to my point,” Tywin replies calmly, waiting for her to sit back down, fuming, before he continues, “Even when you have little proof at best, you truly are a she-wolf protecting her pups. You care deeply for your family, and though duty and honour are Tully words as well, family comes first. Suppose there was a way for you to save the rest of your family from your husband’s fate? Suppose you could protect not only your daughters, but your brother as well?”

“Edmure _lives_?” Cat breathes incredulously. She had not heard anything to the contrary, but given the bloodshed at his wedding she could only assume that he too had received the same as her son and his bannermen.

“Edmure lives,” Tywin confirms. “As does his little Frey wife, although I doubt she’s spared any of your concern at present.” Catelyn doesn’t give him the grace of a response, so he continues. “There is a way for you to ensure your brother remains thus, and for your daughters to be spared any punishment, should they be found. Even your eldest, for whom my daughter has issued a royal warrant to arrest her for the murder of King Joffrey.”

Catelyn visibly blanches at the image that flashes through her mind of Sansa on the steps of the Sept of Baelor, her head on a pike next to her fathers. Her hand flies to her mouth as she struggles to hold back a sob. She closes her eyes and breathes deeply. “How?” she says finally, slowly and carefully.

“Marry me.”


	4. Chapter 4

Of all the words that Lord Tywin could have uttered, this is the last thing she expected. Her eyes flash open and she stares at him, completely doubting what she thinks she has heard.

But Tywin merely nods his head and speaks on. “You heard me, Lady Catelyn. Marry me.”

“Exactly _what_ could you possibly say to convince me this is not some jape,” she forces out through gritted teeth. In truth, she almost feels like a wolf herself, holding back a snarl as she surveys her enemy.

“The North has lost,” Tywin replies, not bothering to temper his words. “The Stark line is at its end, and north of the Neck is chaos and confusion. Your son’s bannermen – what remains of them anyway – have no leader, and think only to protect their own families and houses from danger. The Riverlands are besieged by lack of order, raiders and pillagers, and the starts of famine. While your brother remains captive, his lands and his smallfolk are crumbling, but they remain stubborn and refuse to yield to the capital and the king.”

“Casterly Rock and the Queen Regent, you mean,” corrects Catelyn icily.

“Your family are traitors, but their armies are vital if my grandson is to remain on the throne. Stannis amasses ever more men and ships by the day, and though he was defeated at the Blackwater, that does not guarantee us the war, so I need the men your son and your brother held. I cannot win them with gold, I cannot win them with threats and war, but perhaps I can win them with you.” Catelyn makes as if to protest, but Tywin holds up his hand to stop her. “Of all the women in the Seven Kingdoms, who do you suppose has more power than you?”

Catelyn laughs out loud at that. “The Queen, perhaps?”

“The Queen Regent, you mean – the Tyrell girl is queen now,” Tywin retorts, although Cat thinks he does not mean to patronise her. “And Cersei’s power is tenuous at best. While Robert lived it rested on whatever she could grasp away from him; while Joffrey reigned it slipped away from her piece by piece as she lost control of her son. I am not blind and I am not ignorant to miss how the Tyrells wrestle more and more of what remains from her with every day that Tommen spends with his little wife, and anything that remains is mine in truth, because despite her titles and her wealth, she has nothing without my support.”

As sickened as she is by Tywin’s blatant display of pride, Catelyn has to concede that he is perhaps right.

“You, however… You have the loyalty and the love of two of the Seven Kingdoms, if not more. You are a Tully born and a Stark wed, the mother of the North and the daughter of Riverrun, and – your captive brother, besieged uncle and coward of a sister aside – all that remains of two great Houses. Were you not captive here, you could round up armies to avenge your family; you’d be the tragic figurehead of thousands.”

Catelyn knows he does not mean it as flattery, but she cannot help but be almost please by his words. So many years spent feeling like an outsider in the North, of feeling alienated from Riverrun, and now she truly has both. And yet considering the price paid to win it, she’d rather lose every bit of power if it meant getting her husband and her children safe and sound behind the strong walls of Winterfell.

Lord Tywin tactfully ignores her as she wipes the moisture from her eyes. “Gold can buy power,” he adds, “but loyalty will retain it. Who will the North and the Riverlands rally to, if not you?”

“What makes you think they will follow me if I join you? How can you know that they will not call me a traitor to my House – to my _Houses_ – and that you will be no better off than you are now?”

“Because you will convince them,” comes the reply. “You will be the champion of peace. As the true first lady of the realm and wife to the Hand of the King, your words will convince them it is peace, not war, that they desire. If their tragic heroine can set all aside and plead for peace, who do they turn to for their fire and their fight?”

Catelyn is silent for a long time, her eyes unreadable and her expression impenetrable even to Tywin Lannister. Then, suddenly, she strikes.

“Lord Tywin, I think you have perhaps forgotten one thing,” Lady Catelyn Stark says, rises from her seat and standing proud and tall and strong. “You are the reason my son is dead, your family are the reason my husband is dead and my daughters missing, and your war is the reason my two little boys were slaughtered in their home. If you think I will ever forgive you for that, then, my lord, you are sorely mistaken.”

“I do not ask for your forgiveness, Lady Catelyn. Just your hand in marriage.” Tywin rises also and steps towards her. “You hate myself and my House, and considering the offences we have done you you have almost every right to. But consider this; in these past few days since the Freys betrayal, your son’s murder, and his armies scattering to the Northern winds, when have you felt more alive and fuelled with fire than when sparring with me?”

He pauses, as if to let her take this in, then continues, “You are a remarkable woman, Catelyn-” She flinches – at his use of just her name, his proximity, or of what she is certain was a compliment from Tywin Lannister, she is unsure. “-and it would be a waste for such a woman to simply fade away when she could do far greater things.” And then he rises from his seat and heads to the door. As his hand reaches for the handle though, he hesitates, turns back and repeats “Just consider it,” and then he’s gone and the door closes behind him.


	5. Chapter 5

She has made her decision within a few minutes of Tywin’s departure, but it keeps her awake throughout the night anyway. She dismisses the maid when she returns to her room, and as dawn draws closer she’s still leaning heavily against the sill of the window, staring up to the stars and praying to the Seven for guidance. Or forgiveness, because there is really only one path she can choose. She hates that Lord Tywin is right about her, hates that she is so easy to predict, but she would do _anything_ to protect her family.

Including marrying a man who had a hand in its destruction.

The sun is still low in the sky but she pushes away from the window regardless and heads to Lord Tywin’s solar, ever dogged by her guard. That he will have risen already is without question and when she enters the room she finds him breaking his fast at his desk, a goblet in one hand and some papers in the other. There are no guards in the room save her own, but she sees he already wears his sword-belt and she doubts the Kingslayer inherited his talents from Lady Joanna.

“You have reached a decision,” he observes as he sets down the goblet and lays the papers to one side.

Uninvited, she sits in the chair opposite him. “If we are to wed, I have some conditions,” she begins bluntly. As she had thought, Lord Tywin looks like he has been expecting as much. “Firstly, the lives of my family will be spared. My daughter, my brother, my sister and her son, and my uncle – no harm will come to them under your orders. Take what you will from them, but leave them their lives.”

_Family_. Tywin inclines his head. “I’d expect no less from a Tully.”

“Secondly…” She appears to take no heed of his words. “My son will be given a proper burial, and his-” She just manages to suppress her shudder at the thought of his body defiled by the Freys. “-his body will be returned to Winterfell where he will rest with his father once this war is finished.”

_Duty_. Tywin can guess what comes next.

“Thirdly,” she continues. “I will not be disgraced. I will be the Lady of the Rock, and I will act thus so long as I am treated thus.”

_Honour_. Tywin nods again, and again Catelyn ignores him. If this is to be their table of negotiation, she will damn well fight her corner.

“And finally…” She looks him straight in the eye this time. “Petyr Baelish, Theon Greyjoy, and Walder Frey. I want their heads.”

_Revenge_.


	6. Chapter 6

“No.” Lord Tywin’s response is short, sharp and unexpected, and Catelyn looks at him in confusion. “Littlefinger I can give you,” he continues, “and your turncloak ward as well, but not Lord Frey.”

Cat narrows her eyes at him. “Need I remind you that he _killed my son_?”

“You need not. Need _I_ remind _you_ that a Lannister always pays his debts? It would be poor payment indeed for me to renege on that and kill him.”

“So the Freys will be rewarded while my son rots in the earth?!” Cat exclaims, clenching her hands into fists. “And I am to marry the man responsible?!”

“Your son is dead, my lady,” Tywin says, although not unkindly. “Your daughters are not. Think of those who need you, not of those who are beyond your help.”

Catelyn nods slowly. “And what of the Queen Regent?” she asks.

Tywin is taken aback. “If you think I will order my daughter’s execution-”

“No,” Cat interrupts him. “No, that is not what I meant. But your daughter wants my daughter’s head for King Joffrey’s murder, and I cannot-” She trails off at the thought of Sansa joining Robb and Ned and Bran and Rickon in death.

“You will not,” he assures her. “I give you my word.”

And however little the word of Lord Lannister is worth to Lady Stark, she grasps it with both hands and holds it tight against her.

“Then I accept your proposal,” she says, “and I give you my hand in marriage.”

And together they stand, the Lord and future Lady of Casterly Rock, with as much formality as two armies brokering a truce in parley.


	7. Chapter 7

The dress is more direwolf-grey than trout-silver, but if Tywin Lannister dares comment she’ll shrug delicately and feign ignorance. It’s his own fault for insisting she marry him in the Tully colours she’s not worn in over sixteen years, rather than as the Stark she has become, and she twists the silver ring she wears that Ned gave her when they were first wed.

But she will not think of Ned, not today, not when she weds one of his killers.

No, she has to stop thinking like that. She has chosen this path and she cannot stray now, not when so much and so many lives depend on it. She is still surprised that Lord Tywin has kept his word about her family, even forced Cersei to declare Sansa innocent and under the protection of the king, but though she does not trust him with their lives, she can almost trust him with his word.

There are cracks in the alliance already though; Cersei had refused to attend the wedding before even being invited, and of Jaime there had been no word for weeks. Cat had been allowed to see Edmure several times in his less than comfortable – but still not uncivilised – guarded quarters, and though he did not condemn her decision, neither did he condone it. In truth, she had never seen her brother looking so tired as when he had been forced to surrender Riverrun and his title – his father’s title and his father’s before that, and the Tully’s seat for hundreds of years – and concede them to the Lannisters. Word was that their uncle was putting up more of a fight, despite Catelyn’s pleas and Tywin’s threats, and Cat knows that if he continues then even her bargain with Lord Tywin cannot protect the Blackfish.

She heaves a heavy sigh and eyes herself in the looking-glass. The figure reflected is scarcely recognisable, the gown she wears almost alien in its finery and extravagance. For so many years she has grown used to the simple northern gowns, far more suited for warmth and comfort than for the southron styles, and the rich silks and satins feel both too light and too heavy as she moves. She herself has changed too; the stranger in the mirror has the Tully hair and eyes, true, but the flaming red locks are tempered by more grey than ever, and the blue in her eyes is dull and empty. War and grief has taken her fine figure and aged her in return, and though she still holds herself tall with a lady’s grace, she is a far cry from Catelyn Stark, and further still from Catelyn Tully.

A knock comes on the door and another nameless maid pokes her head around. “It is time, my lady,” she mutters before darting back away, and Catelyn steels herself for what is to come. There is no-one to give her away this time, because though Tywin had suggested her brother might be allowed, Cat had refused; she would not let Edmure be made a mockery of too – the turncloak widow and her traitor brother – and since she was the one who agreed to this marriage, she might as well give herself up to it.

She smoothes down her Stark gown, briefly touches the ring Ned gave her – she will not take it off, not now, not ever – and dons her Tully bridescloak.

 _Family, Duty, Honour_ , she intones, and she repeats it like a prayer as she steps forth from the room, and towards her new fate.


	8. Chapter 8

Lannister colours dominate the hall, crimson and gold draped on almost every surface and decking most of the guests present, but there’s rather too much Stark in the sept for Tywin’s liking, and not enough Tully. There are no Stark banners or cloaks of course, but the traitorous colours have crept in anyway – the Banefort grey field positioned too close to the white unicorn of House Doggett – and there’s a chill in the air that seems to boom and echo the ominous _Winter is Coming_ cry.

It’s a miracle a bloody direwolf hasn’t turned up yet.

Tywin waits at the back of the sept for the arrival of his bride, the golden statues of the Mother and Father either side of the crimson-draped altar. The gathered kinsmen and bannermen titter and shuffle amongst themselves as they anticipate Lady Catelyn’s arrival. Tywin spares them less than a brief glance – he’s used to the gossip and petty vying for positions that all the court vipers seem to practise, and Casterly Rock is as much a snakepit as King’s Landing these days, except without the accompanying stench.

A particularly venomous lady catches his eye for a moment and flashes him a coquettish smile, and Tywin turns away impassively. The woman will be gone tomorrow; he’ll make certain of it.

The sudden collective rustle from the guests takes Tywin by surprise and he collects himself before he too turns to face the sept door – it would not do for Lord Lannister to be seen off-guard.

He almost has to turn back and collect himself again when he sees what awaits him.

Despite her every effort to the contrary, Lady Catelyn Tully Stark looks every inch a Lannister as she steps into the sept. Despite the Tully bridescloak that ripples behind her, despite the colour of her gown – he is no fool, he sees the Stark grey she tries to hide with Tully silver – and despite the thoughts he knows are running through her head as she forces herself to take each step forward, the burning candles and the light seeping in through the high windows casts a glow over her and turns maroon and blue and silver and grey to shades of gleaming gold that settles against the red of her hair in a burning reflection of the Lannister colours.

She will make a fine Lady of the Rock indeed.

The mist of incense parts as she passes and she glides so effortlessly down the length of the sept that he almost doesn’t notice the quaver in her steps and the tight clench of her jaw. Almost.

By the time the seven promises have been exchanged, half the sept has forgotten that Lady Catelyn had ever been a Tully, married a Stark, birthed a pretender-king and abducted a Lannister, and the other half has forgiven her all her crimes for her beauty alone. Tywin is the only one to notice how she suppresses her shudder when he drapes the crimson velvet around her shoulders, the only one to feel the tension she bears as their lips touch for the fleetest of moments, and the only one who realises just how false are the smiles she gives as he escorts her back past the statues of the Seven that line the length of the sept.

They have a moment to themselves outside before the feasting begins and as he turns to appraise her in the full sunlight he notices a flash of silver on her hand.

“That ring you wear, my lady,” he begins, but he does not know how to finish the question.

Catelyn tugs her sleeve down to hide the ring, and looks at him defiantly. “It was a gift,” she says shortly, and in that moment Tywin knows that despite the cloak around her shoulders and despite the smiles she gave to her husband’s kinsmen, the new Lady Lannister is a fighter, and she has not conceded the war yet.


	9. Chapter 9

_I am a woman wed once more_ , she thinks as yet another Westerland lord bends to kiss her hand and congratulate her. She had barely gotten used to widowhood, barely resigned herself to the empty space in her bed, and now she was a wife again, and the space was to be filled.

 _I must look to the future and the living, not to the past and the dead_.

She directs another false smile at another insipid court ‘lady’ and takes a sip of her wine. _Arbor gold, and my husband drinks Arbor red. What a fine pair of Lannisters we make_.

Catelyn forces herself to swallow the mouthful and then sets the goblet aside. Drinking herself into her cups will not delay the inevitable of this night, only make her look foolish in front of her new household, and bring ire to her lord husband.

She resists the childish urge to pick up the goblet and start drinking again, heavily, and scans her eyes across the hall. A troupe of players begin a lively jig and several dozen of the wedding guests pick up the invitation to dance, and when a singer starts belting out the words to _The Rains of Castamere_ to the same tune Catelyn cannot help but look to Lord Tywin to see his reaction. She had thought to catch him out on his pride, to give herself another sword to swing at him, but he looks at the dancing guests with thinly disguised distaste and, she thinks, boredom.

Perhaps they are not so unlike as she had thought.

He sees her looking at him, catches her eye, and then signals to the musicians to play something else. He stands and offers her his hand, a hand that bears a ring of its own, Cat notices, although his is gold and hers is silver.

“Would you like to dance, my lady?” he asks, and what can Catelyn do but slide her hand in his and let him help her to her feet, down the steps of the dais, and onto the floor.

She is not surprise to learn that he is a good dancer, but she is surprised when he holds her tightly but gently against him and bends his head to whisper in her ear “ _I’m sorry_.”

Catelyn freezes for a moment but recovers swiftly. Her hearing is just fine and her ears aren’t deceiving her, and she knows him better than to think he will say it again.

Still, it is _something_ , and that something brings a little more life into her eyes, and a little more sparkle into her false, dead smile.

The dance ends and he bows and she curtseys and they walk arm in arm back to their seats.


	10. Chapter 10

They are halfway through the feast’s second course when the massive doors to the hall are unceremoniously thrown open and in strides Ser Jaime Lannister.

“Father. My lady.” He greets them courteously, almost casually, as if he hadn’t been heard neither hide nor hair of for almost a whole moon.

“Jaime,” replies Lord Tywin impassively. “How was your… venture?”

Jaime cocks a half-smile. “Fruitful,” he answers. “The Vale of Arryn is a truly bountiful place.”

_The Vale?_ thinks Cat. _What was the Kingslayer doing in the Vale?_

As if sensing Catelyn’s confusion, Jaime almost-smiles again. “My lady, I believe I have found something of yours,” he says cryptically, and disappears back into the passageway outside.

_Something of mine in the Vale?_ All she can guess is Lysa.

Jaime returns not a minute later, ushering a girl wearing his less-than-pristine white Kingsguard cloak into the hall. One look at the girl’s brown hair and youthful figure puts paid to Catelyn’s theory.

_Not Lys_ -

And then the girl lifts her head and Cat forgets about being strong, forgets about the army of Lannisters watching her, forgets that she is anything other than a mother as her hands fly to her face and tears spring to her eyes and she breathes her daughter’s name and runs to envelop her in her arms.

_Sansa!_


	11. Chapter 11

It is the first time in months that she feels more Sansa than Alayne, more Stark than Stone. They cling to one another with bruising strength, but it’s not enough for either of them and they embrace fiercer still.

It is the first time in months that she lets her feelings show. She has worn a mask for so long now – in Joffrey’s court, as Tyrion’s wife, as Petyr’s bastard – that she almost cannot break free, but as her mother strokes her hair and hushes her softly and whispers to her that _It’s alright, darling, you’re safe now_ she forgets to hide her tears.

A voice behind them and then a face before them and mother and daughter follow Jaime Lannister from the hall. He shows them into a cool, dark antechamber, thrusts a torch into a bracket and then ducks out the room to stand guard, hand on sword hilt.

But Sansa notices none of this, only the soothing words and warm embrace and flowing tears of the woman beside her.

“ _Mother_ …”

Her voice cracks. How long has it been since they were last together? Back in Winterfell, with Father and Robb and Arya and Bran and Rickon.

Before King Robert and King Joffrey and Queen Cersei and Lord Baelish – _you were not my father, my father was honourable and just and kind, and Lord Eddard Stark of Winterfell_ – and before Sansa Lannister and Alayne Stone.

When winter was coming but had not arrived, and there was a fire in the huge hearth, and the hot springs in the godswood, and the late blooms in the glass gardens, and direwolves playing in the snow.

With Father and Robb and Arya and Bran and Rickon.

Sansa weeps against her mother’s shoulder, and her mother weeps with her, and finally they allow themselves to be less than strong.


	12. Chapter 12

She has never felt so exposed in her life, and Catelyn is grateful when Jaime ushers them into an antechamber, away from the prying eyes. In here she does not have to be Lady Lannister, or even Lady Stark; she can be just a mother comforting her child, and that means the world to her.

It is some time before she can bring herself to disturb her daughter. She is loathe to do so, but there are questions she needs the answers to, the first and foremost being where Sansa has been.

Sansa’s voice is small when she replies, her voice sore from crying. “At the Eyrie,” she whispers.

Catelyn should have known one question would only lead rise to more. “What? How? How did you escape King’s Landing?”

And Sansa tells her everything: of Jonquil and Florian and Ser Dontos the Red-turned-fool; of a Tyrell wedding and an amethyst hairnet and Joffrey’s death; of climbing down the cliff and the boat that waited to take her to the Fingers; of Alayne Stone and her brown hair; of Sweetrobin and Lady Lysa; of Marillion and the Moon Doors; and of Petyr Baelish.

“That _worm_.”

Catelyn will not even speak his name; she will not even give him that after what he did to Ned, and now their little girl. She remembers holding her son in her arms after the death of his father and making a vow to kill their enemies. Now, holding her daughter in her arms after the death of that son, and all her children bar the one she holds, she makes the same vow again. “ _I will kill him_ ,” she spits, clenching her fists so tight that the scars burn white against her palms.

But Sansa lowers her eyes and shakes her head slowly. “He’s dead,” she whispers, her voice empty and dead in itself as she speaks the condemning words.

“Dead? How?”

Sansa’s eyes flick down to her feet and Catelyn is reminded of how a long time ago her precious, broken Bran once promised to stop climbing. She bites the inside of her mouth and holds back her burning desire to ask for the truth.

Then Sansa’s gaze flicks to the open door where Jaime Lannister stands guard, and Catelyn follows her. He turns as if her can feel their stares – or has heard their conversation and guessed at the silence.

“I sent him on a little _trip_ ,” he says, and though Cat can hear the usual sneering cockiness in his words, and picture quite clearly Littlefinger following her poor sister out the Moon Doors, there’s something lacking in his voice that suggests she is not getting quite the whole story.

One look at the distress on her daughter’s face and Catelyn knows now is not the time to press further.

She’s almost grateful for the distraction when Jaime starts saying something else, until he suggests it is time for the bride to return to her wedding feast. Catelyn nearly flinches at the reminder that _she_ is the bride, and it is the feast for _her_ wedding, her wedding to Tywin Lannister.

She nods sharply and as he leaves she turns once more to her daughter. Sansa’s hands are shaking so she takes them in her own until they still, and then tucks a stray strand of hair back into her daughter’s dark braid. Tears glisten on Sansa’s cheeks and Catelyn brushes them away gently.

“Come now,” she whispers. “No more tears. We will show them how strong Stark women can be.”

Sansa takes a little step back, as if her mother’s words have awoken something inside her. “But you’re not a Stark anymore,” she says, and the hurt accusation in her voice is painful to hear. “You’re a Lannister now,” she adds, looking at her mother’s bridescloak as if seeing it for the first time, and then adding more quietly, “We both are.”

Catelyn’s heart falls. There is not time to explain her motivations for wedding Tywin Lannister, so for now she must make do with a gentle “I have to protect my family – to protect you” and hope that in time she can explain further and Sansa will understand.

Sansa shrugs numbly and tries to pull away, but Catelyn cannot bear to let her go again. “Listen to me,” she says more firmly, relieved when Sansa looks her straight in the eye. “Whatever Tywin Lannister thinks, I am still a Stark no matter how crimson the cloak around my shoulders – just as Tully is still my house though Winterfell has been my home for the last sixteen years. Wearing one cloak does not mean you cannot wear another, do you understand?”

Sansa nods slowly once, stops, and then continues more determinedly. “Yes,” she says firmly.

Catelyn strokes her daughter’s hair. “Good,” she replies. “Now, we will go back into that hall, and _we will show them how strong Stark women can be_.”

It has been so long since Sansa has felt safe that it feels almost strange to her. Stranger still is that the feeling should come in the heart of the lions’ den, surrounded by her brother’s enemies and her father’s killers and her mother’s captors.

And so mother and daughter – red hair and brown hair and the same Tully blue eyes – go back to the feast with their hands entwined and a ferocity between them that announces that _Winter is still coming_.

They do not notice that between Sansa’s cloak and Catelyn’s dress together they wear the Stark colours but it does not matter; after all, wearing one cloak does not mean you cannot wear another, and they do not need grey and white (or red and blue) to remind them where they belong.


	13. Chapter 13

For the rest of the feast, they do not let go of one another’s hand. Tywin is on Catelyn’s other side, Jaime on Sansa’s, and though the two Starks are penned in by two Lannisters it feels less like a trap with every passing minute.

Catelyn sees that Sansa is wilting though, senses that she would like nothing more than to retire to bed for the rest of the evening, so she squeezes her daughter’s hand and turns to her husband, only to catch him staring thoughtfully right at her. His sudden blink is the only indication that he has startled her, but she knows that she’s caught him off-guard, just as he has caught her off-guard; she had not expected to come face-to-face with him so suddenly.

She clears her throat and takes a sip of wine. “My daughter is tired, my lord,” she says simply. (Still ‘my lord’, not yet ‘Tywin’.) “Will you excuse her?”

Tywin catches the strain in her voice, and senses that his wife would like to be excused as well. He gestures dismissively. “Go with her then,” he says, and then signals for his son’s attention. “Jaime, see that they have everything they need.”

Catelyn frowns in confusion as Jaime offers his hand first to her, then to Sansa, to help them to their feet. Was she really so easy to read that Tywin Lannister, her husband of less than a few hours and still a relative stranger, can guess her thoughts already? “I had thought you might insist I stay for the rest of the feast,” she murmured, half to her herself, half to him.

He waves his hand dismissively. “It’s only a feast,” he says. “Go with your daughter.” And as she follows her daughter and her step-son out of the hall, Catelyn wonders if she hasn’t underestimated her new lord husband.

—-

She pushes a lock of her daughter’s hair off her face and presses a kiss to her forehead. Sansa had been so tired that she fell asleep almost as soon as Catelyn had tucked the bedcovers around her, like she had done so many times when Sansa was a little girl. Sansa is fast asleep now, but still Catelyn lingers in her daughter’s room, entranced by the look of peace on her face. For herself she feels like a tempest is swarming inside her as she contemplates what awaits her after she leaves the room, and so she remains a little longer, drawing strength from the fact that Sansa is returned to her safely, and from the cool sea breeze and flickering candlelight that gently livens the room.

It is almost as if they were back at Winterfell.

She pushes the thought from her mind, but her heart pounds as she quietly pushes the heavy door open and slips outside. Jaime hovers in the hallway, and as Catelyn closes the door after her he offers to stand guard outside Sansa’s room.

“It might set your heart at rest, my lady,” he adds quietly, and they are both reminded of his vow to see her daughters safely to her. A vow he has half-fulfilled so far, anyway.

Catelyn thinks of the way Sansa was looking at Jaime Lannister earlier, as if she would put her life in his hands, and it is this which prompts her to nod in agreement, thus entrusting the most precious thing that remains to her to the hands of the Kingslayer, and leaving him to guard her daughter.


	14. Chapter 14

Though the sounds drifting through the corridors tell her the feast is still in full swing, Catelyn makes for Lord Tywin’s chambers. They are her chambers too now she supposes – at least until her husband decrees otherwise – and though she dreads what will surely come, done it must be to seal the bargain of this marriage.

She prays to find him already asleep but as soon as she opens the door she can see that is not so. Still, she has been spared the humiliation of the bedding ceremony, which is one blessing, and she has not had to beg entrance to the room, which is another.

“Has your daughter recovered?”

Catelyn near laughs. If Tywin thinks Sansa is recovered after everything his family have put her through, he is much mistaken. “She is settling, my lord,” she replies tersely. “And she is safe. It is enough for now.”

Tywin sets down the papers he had been leafing through and indicates the chair across from him. As Catelyn sits he pours her a generous glass of wine, which she accepts gratefully; she will need the fortification of Dornish red is she is to make it through tonight without breaking.

He frowns a little at the speed and size of her gulps and though he says nothing, Catelyn sets down the goblet. “I am sorry for missing the rest of the feast,” she manages to say, made rather uncomfortable by his silence.

He eyes her closely. “Are you?” He sounds almost amused by the concept. “I doubt that.”

Silence settles, so Catelyn tries again. “Lord Tywin-”

“Just Tywin,” he corrects her. “We are wed now.”

Catelyn frowns. “ _Lord_ Tywin,” she repeats firmly. “I know what sort of marriage we have made for ourselves. Let’s not pretend otherwise when it is just us together.”

He considers her words for a moment, before standing and offering her his hand. “Very well then,” he says, and as he helps her up she can sense the rapport between them has changed; become harsher, perhaps, but more honest. She knows what must come next.

He gestures for her to turn so her back is to him, and while he unhooks the fastenings of her grey dress she tugs her long braid over her shoulder and unties the ribbon at the end. The curls unravel as her gown slides to the ground, and she thanks the gods the room is dark so he cannot see how much she is trembling.

They do not talk; they do not kiss; just continue to strip until both are laid bare before one another, the sharp sea breeze shivering across their skin. Catelyn stares straight ahead, focusing on a spot of light on the far wall as Tywin’s fingers sweep over her hip, waist and up to her breasts as she wills herself not to jerk away from his touch.

“Look at me,” he commands, and she turns to face him again, forcing herself to look him in the eye. She cannot let her will fail her now, not when so much depends on their marriage. There’s a sudden coldness at her side and she inhales sharply. Her gaze falls to where his hand rests on her hip, his thumb brushing idly over her skin, and the icy metal band around his finger that so startled her. He follows her gaze, and his brow furrows slightly.

“You’ve not been with any man but Eddard Stark, have you?” he asks after a moment.

Though he does not mean it unkindly, a lump still forms in Catelyn’s throat at the mention of Ned. She wants to push Tywin away but she’s frozen to the spot, even without his hands keeping her there. She shuts her eyes to force back the maelstrom of grief that threatens to sink her and closes her mind to the past, at least for tonight; there is little else she can do now she has made her bed, though it pains her to do so.

She raises her hands to take his and looks him earnestly in the eyes. “My lord,” she begins, and is almost gratified at how in-control she sounds. “There are enough ghosts in this marriage as it is. Let’s not let them haunt our bed as well.”

Her husband arches an eyebrow, as if questioning whether she is certain. Catelyn nods her head and takes his hand.

 _I am Lady Lannister now_ , she thinks, and when Tywin leans in to kiss her, this time she kisses him back.


	15. Epilogue

The huge doors are flung open abruptly and for the first time in more than six hundred years the Great Hall of The Twins is breached. Dozens of weaselly Freys spring up from their seats, startled, drawing swords sluggishly and moving to positions of defence. Barely half a minute passes before they are lowering them again as the might of the Lannister host files into the room.

“We were not expecting visitors,” says Ser Ryman stupidly from his position in front of his father’s seat, still in shock at the sudden intrusion.

“I know,” replies the figure at the front of the red- and gold-cloaks, lowering the hood of the black cloak that conceals her distinctive auburn hair. Catelyn steps forward into the dim light of the room. “Forgive the sudden intrusion, but it would seem your doors were barred even to the Hand of the King and his forces.” Her voice is oddly calm, even as she surveys the room where, last she was here, her son and his bannermen had been slaughtered before her eyes.

“How did you get in?” demands a younger, even more stupid Frey. A brother or half-brother or sister’s son of even less importance than most of the Freys in the room, no doubt.

“Over the walls,” Catelyn replies simply. “For all the good work your guards do at barring the gates, they are useless at watching the walls.” _Especially on a night with little moon, and many clouds_.

“What do you want?” old Lord Frey rasps for the first time from his twisted seat on the dais, shielded by several of his many offspring.

Catelyn does not beat about the bush. “I want justice for my son.”

Walder’s face twists into a cruel, almost grimacing smile. “ _Heh_. Your son was a traitor.” He pauses. “You were a traitor too, last time I heard. Did Lord Lannister forgive you before or after you spread your legs for him?”

Cat’s face is impassive. “You defied the laws of guest-right and hospitality and slaughtered those under sacred protection,” she says evenly, ignoring him. “You betrayed your liegelord and butchered my son-”

“Traitors, the lot of them! _Heh_ , your son looked kingly indeed with a wolf’s head for a crown.”

Catelyn shakes with fury. “You _dare_ -”

“I dare because I can,” snaps Lord Frey. “Lord Tywin assured me there would be no retribution for my loyalty to the crown, so, Lady Stark, unless you’re here to reward me for killing your son…”

“Oh but I am,” Catelyn interrupts sharply. She turns her head slightly. “Seize him,” she orders, and the host behind her moves forward. Soldiers file in on either side of her as she stands in the doorway and cries of alarm shoot up from the Freys. They are swiftly outnumbered, outmatched, and disarmed and only when the rest of the Frey spawn is pushed to the edges of the hall by the Lannister guards does Catelyn stride across the hall.

“Unhand me!” Walder Frey protests as he is dragged from his seat. “I have the protection of Lord Lannister himself!”

“ _Had_ ,” Catelyn corrects him, and he is flung unceremoniously at her feet. “And it would seem that you and he both overlooked the same thing.” Lord Frey scrabbles around on the floor pathetically, and Catelyn kneels down to grab the neck of his robes and hold him up by the throat. Her words are like ice in his ear, full of cold fury, but clear for the entire hall to hear. “I’m _Lady Lannister_ too now,” she hisses, “and I’m sure you’ve heard the words _a Lannister always pays his debts_ before. Or hers,” Catelyn adds as an afterthought. “You killed my son, Lord Frey, and it would seem I owe you a life.”

“ _Heh_ , you’ve forgotten your house words, woman,” he sneers at her, a feeble last act of defiance, but Catelyn is not cowed.

“No,” she replies, pushing him to the floor and standing up. She turns, signalling to two guards who bind the lord’s hands behind him, and unsheathes the sword from the scabbard the captain of the guard offers her.

Alarm flashes in Lord Walder’s eyes and he tries to scramble away, but old bones and old muscle and long-gone strength fail him. He falls hard to the ground.

Catelyn steps towards him.

“Family, Duty, Honour,” she says as he struggles to his knees.

“Winter is coming,” she says as she raises the greatsword Ice.

 _Hear. Me. Roar_.


End file.
